Chapter 4 #3
He’s not shy, he's got her whole cunt in his mouth, and both of her hands smack the bar as her legs shake, pleasure crawlin' through her fast. She tries to hover, keep her knees from bucklin', but it doesn’t last a second. She's collapsin', her legs foldin' in half.
He catches her, one hand at the base of her thigh, spreading her open wider, the other grabbin’ a fistful of her ass. And he drags her down.
Her spread pussy lands right on his opened mouth—hot, soaked—and he groans into her, nose buried, lickin' her deep and slow.
She grinds down on him before the shame slams into her.
Then she tries to pull away.
“Nah—stay in my fuckin’ mouth,” he murmurs. “This pussy’s too fuckin’ good.” He lets her sit on his face, lets her grind, lets her lose the last fuck she has left.
His thumb sinks inside her.
In, out, draggin’ arousal for him to get lost in.
“Oh, fuck—please,” spills right out of her.
Andrew grins between her folds. “Yeah?” He unties her boot fast, slippin’ it off her heel. “What’re you beggin’ for, huh?” He rips off her jeans and panties from one ankle. Then lifts her leg and plants it on the cooler, spreading her folds apart with both thumbs to look at her.
“If I let you come in my mouth right now, you gon’ let me keep eatin’ this pussy all night or what?” His thumb curls back inside her until she’s drippin’, whimperin’. “Answer me.”
Speechless, she nods. 'Cause she don't know this Harding.
Then his mouth is back on her, his long tongue rakin’ up through her cunt and wrappin' around her clit. A moan breaks out of both of them, and she grinds down again.
Andrew keeps his mouth where her pain is, makin’ forgotten pussy remember what it feels like to be wanted again. And fuck if it doesn’t work. Ryan, the vows, the kitchen, the side bitch—all of it slips out of her and drips down Andrew’s chin.
He eats her, nose draggin', mouth grindin’ into her cunt, thumb pumpin’ inside, lips rakin’ over her clit, hot breath fogging between her folds. Another moan slips, her whole body grippin' tight, heat ripping through her, seconds from snappin' in half. Fuck, she's gonna come.
He knows and goes harder. “C'mon, sweetheart,” he says into her pussy. “Let go. Right now. All over my fuckin’ face.”
Then his lips close around her clit, tongue pressed hard, suckin’ in waves, pullin’ the orgasm right out of her. And her body snaps.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she stutters, hand flying to the back of his head, fistin' wild in his hair. She’s bent at the knees, chest heavin', pussy stolen by his mouth. She’s about to scream, and she don't care who hears.
One final grind. One sobbed curse.
Then the orgasm crashes out of her so hard she folds into it.
Thighs clench around his head, every muscle tight, every limb shakin’.
Andrew pries her thighs open, tongue slack and warm as she comes. Then the climax fades, her hips slowin' as she stares down at him, stunned.
He opens her with both thumbs, watchin’ her throb. “Yeah, that's it,” he breathes hot, eyes locked where she's spread. "You remember now, huh?" He brushes his mouth over the spread of her. "How fuckin' sexy you are when you take it all back."
He thrusts his long fuckin’ tongue up inside again, lickin’ her orgasm right outta her before sealin’ his mouth around her clit, suckin’ gently, cravin’ more and ready for round two.
Her head falls back with a sigh. “Oh my fuck…”
// TWELVE HOURS LATER - THE HUSSY - HELL'S KITCHEN, NYC //
Nina’s outside The Hussy, pacing in a tank top on the sidewalk, cigarette burnin' fast between her fingers.
She woulda called him, but her phone’s shattered from throwing it against the wall last night, right before she came harder than she ever has in her whole life—three fuckin’ times.
Now she’s stuck out here, gut twisted up.
And the cigarette don’t do shit. It only reminds her of the way he lit her up from the inside.
Every drag’s the heat climbin' her spine. Every inhale’s the jaw between her thighs.
Every little high's a sigh. Every exhale's the way he licked her after.
Andrew Harding, her eighteen-year-old bus boy.
She smokes as if she’s tryin’ to burn the memory into ash. But all it does is brand the memory deeper. She ain’t ready to see him and act like she didn’t come apart all over his mouth.
But he’ll be here any second.
Then in the next, Andrew’s roundin’ the corner like the night never ended, all long legs, dark jeans, black shirt huggin’ his chest.
And his fuckin’ walk—lazy, Jersey swagger.
She wants to scream at him.
She wants to punch him in the face.
She wants to lick the fuckin’ sweat off his temple.
He looks up, then sees her standin’ there, and it kills whatever rhythm he had. His feet slow, shoulders goin’ stiff. His hand runs down his face, across his jaw to buy himself time. Then he looks left, toward the deli, anywhere but her.
He stops right in front of her, sidewalk still wet from the rain under his boots. Her face says everything. He knows before she even opens her mouth.
“Last night? Shoulda never fuckin’ happened.”
He steps back, slidin’ his hand into his back pocket, eyes drift off again, anywhere but her. Then he lets out a breath of a laugh. Not angry, but fuckin’ tired. Like he ran this scene in his head so many times and hoped he was wrong.
“Swore I wouldn’t do this,” she says. “Said you wouldn’t lose this job, but I can’t be near you after last night. And you said it yourself: burn it, and it never fuckin’ happened—fire makes sure it don’t come back to haunt you.”
He goes still with his words she threw back at him.
She exhales, finishing it.
“So that’s what I’m doin’, Harding. You’re fired.”
His lips part. Maybe to speak. Maybe not.
Then he nods a small nod, standin’ there a second too long, avoidin’ her gaze, jaw tight as he looks off. Until his eyes drop to the pavement.
She can't tell if he's mad, ashamed, or regretful.
Or just done.
Then he turns and walks off.
And never looks back.